


Can't Not Knot

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Series: ABO [6]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: A/B/O, ABO, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Awkward Sexual Situations, Fail sex, Impotence, Incest, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, PTSD, drinking a glass of water, mentions of fisting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 05:15:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12741741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: Ford has a little trouble in the sack and Stan is a genius.(Ford can't knot for shit and Stan makes bad choices.)





	Can't Not Knot

“Come on, Ford. Come _on_.” Stan pants, his back is plastered to the sheets with sweat and his hands are cramping from gripping Ford’s hair, arms, back. Ford's face is between focused and annoyed.

“I'm _trying,_ Stanley.” He snaps and rolls his hips hard in emphasis. Stan groans.

To be honest, the sex is getting less sexy by the minute--Stan’s feeling the burn of being stretched too long and Ford's arms are shaking from supporting himself and they're usually done by now, spent and glowing and wrapped around each other.

Instead, Ford has been thrusting and grunting for a good two minutes too long and no knot. Nothing. And Stan’s body is being bitchy and refuses to let him come without that knot.

One of Ford's arms drops to the elbow and Ford's face smashes into Stan’s.

“ _Ow_ , fuckin’!”

“Sorry! Sorry.” Ford lifts himself up again to continue but Stan sighs and pushes at his heaving chest.

“Ford, stop, it ain't happenin’.” Ford scowls.

“No, just, give me a moment.” He pants and tries to thrust again, changing the angle. Stan grunts because, yeah, turns out when you're not in the mood? Being pounded in the ass feels weird.

“Ford, no.” Stan says more firmly, pushing harder. Ford growls and looks like he might keep arguing. “Ford, it's okay. I'm not upset or nothin’.” He tries a soothing voice and is rewarded by Ford letting out a long, frustrated sigh before slowly pulling out. Stan’s almost offended to see that Ford was barely hard.

“I'm sorry, Stan.” Ford mumbles into Stan’s neck from his prone position of trying to squish Stan into the bed.

“This shit happens, Sixer. ‘Sides, you got class tomorrow.” Stan awkwardly pats Ford’s back and can't help the smile when he hears and feels Ford groan.

“Philosophy! Everyone knows philosophy is a waste of time! Most of the students are draft-dodging hippies who smell like cannabis!” Ford grumbles into Stan’s chest and Stan chuckles.

“Sounds rough.”

“And poetry! While I admire Whitman’s bold choice of freeform I do not want to read fifty stanzas about a man babbling without rhyme or reason!” Ford is working himself into a sleepy bitch fit.

“Ssh, Pointdexter. Nerd rage later, sleep now.” Stan rolls them on their sides so he doesn't suffocate and Ford grimaces.

“You know, without reaching orgasm, this feels a little gross and slimy.” Ford leans up. Stan gives a dramatic gasp.

“Sixer, you don't like my sex slime?” Stan puts a hand over his heart. Ford snorts while standing and stretching his arms above his head. Stan drinks in the sight without an ounce of shame.

“Technically, it's closer to a mucus.” Ford grabs a pair of boxers.

“Wait, are you telling me my ass has snot.” Stan says, glee lighting up his face. Ford gags.

“Don't be crude, Stanley.” He shudders, heading toward the bathroom. “And don't forget to clean up.” He calls over his shoulder.

“And waste all this ass snot?” Stan says loudly and he barely hears Ford’s heavy sigh.

Stan wipes himself down anyway even if he uses Ford’s undershirt. It's worth Ford’s indignant squawk, even if Ford gives him the cold shoulder for the rest of the night.

 

Stan makes a face as the first wet speckles of paint spit off from the paint roller. The color the client asked for is called ‘chocolate ecstasy’ and looks like a too-spicy-burrito shit. Stan’s dark arm hair catches each shitty drop and Stan knows it won't come out for a week. There's another guy painting the wall next him an awful beige.

“Hey,” Stan calls over his shoulder.

“Hm?” The guy, Dan?, grunts.

“You ever have trouble gettin’ it up?” A dollop of paint lands in Stan’s hair. Ugh.

“What the fuck, Pines?” Dam shoots Stan an offended look.

“Asking for a friend. He's, uh, having trouble.” Stan clarifies, stopping and turning to face the scandalized guy.

“Uh huh, a friend.” He mutters and Stan let's it go. “What the fuck, Pines?”

“Dunno, you're older, thought you might know something.” Stan shrugs. Dan just frowns harder.

“I'm 27, Pines.”

“Yeah, older. So, any advice?” Stan turns to resume painting. He's still got another coat to go on top of this one. Ugh. He hears Dan sigh.

“Well, I mean, could be bored.” Dan returns to painting, too. “Sometimes doing the same gal can make a guy less excited.” Stan frowns. Could Ford be bored? “Drinking also makes it harder. If your ‘friend’ is a partier.” Stan snorts. Yeah, the rowdiest Ford ever gets is in a study group. “Now can we stop talking about this guy’s dick and fucking paint? This color hurts my eyes.”

“Yeah, this wall looks like shit.” Dan laughs and they keep painting.

 

Stan tries to scrub the paint off his arms and outta his hair but the damn thing clings like a leech. Stan exits the bathroom grumbling. Ford looks up from his books with a raised eyebrow.

“Problem?” He asks, dryly.

“I've got paint in my damn arm hair.” Stan whines. Ford fights a smile and Stan scowls.

“How tragic.” Ford turns back to his books, clicking his pen and scribbling notes. Stan watches him, fondly. He saunters over, making little noises because sneaking up on Sixer is a big no-no. He gently wraps his arms around Ford’s chest, nuzzling into his neck. Ford stiffens but relaxes, so Stan hums into Ford's jaw. Ford twitches.

“Stanley, I have to study.” Ford says, a little exasperated and, _yes_ , breathy. Stan pulls Ford's sweater neck aside and licks a sloppy line up Ford’s neck. Ford squeaks. “Stanley!” He reaches back a hand and shoves Stan’s face away. “I need to study!” He snaps and turns to glare at Stan.

“Fine.” Stan settles into the bed with a good sulk, pulling out a Pumaman comic. He's behind anyway.

 

Stan tries every trick he knows to seduce Ford away from his books, even asks Dan for some tips. Dan asks to change the shift schedule.

Ford just keeps making excuses until he gets pissy and snaps.

“Stanley, if you can't learn to control your urges, I will make you sleep on the couch!” He growls in that stupid, sexy voice and Ford is just cruel, making sex brain all hopeful like that. Stan is cowed enough to give it a rest, but that just means that he has more time to think.

 

Okay, so, Ford’s busy with school. School's his priority. Stan just has to change that around. He just has to give Ford's knot a reason to come outta hiding.

The last time went he off his suppressants was a disaster and even Stan knows that. But Ford's here this time. Ford will take care of him. So, Stan skips getting his next prescription filled. He gives Ford his space and Ford seems to appreciate it even though the studying and muttering has gone from Pointdexter to something _fucking nerdier than that_. (Ford's always swearing by that Tesla guy, right? Maybe Tesla.)

Ford is too wrapped up on his big ol’ nerd brain to notice when Stan starts to get restless and, yeah, Stan forgot about the moodiness. He'll go from staring at Ford with stupid, total affection, and then Ford will click a pen and Stan has to leave before he tears Ford a new one (always clicking that damn pen, fucking Pointdexter gives Stan shit for chewing to loud but that damn clicking is okay? Asshole).

The moodiness sucks, but the irrational crying? Stan is watching a soap opera and he starts crying because, dammit, Reginald! You're breaking Abigail’s heart! And Ford comes over all concerned and Stan gets defensives and flees to the bathroom until Ford leaves for class or a study group. Then Stan emerges to see if Reginald pulls his head outta his ass (he doesn’t and Stan doesn’t cry into his toffee peanuts and Ford knows better than to ask why Stan is not-crying).

So, it’s not all roses and, fuck, cheese? Fancy people like cheese, right? Anyway, it sucks and then the heat hits and Stan couldn’t care less. He can’t fucking care past the buzzing in his brain and the restless oversensitivity in his skin. He has to call out of work because the sheets are to fucking erotic. Sixer, true to form, doesn’t notice. Stan suppresses his panting while Ford tears through the shitty apartment for notes (and, fuck, Sixer’s adorable and a _huge fucking moron_ ).

Stan is going to fucking lock Ford in the studio apartment and break the lock when Ford bursts through the door, drunk off his ass with a stack of papers and a grin that could split his face.

“S-stan! Yesh, Stan, look!” Ford waves the papers and they go flying. Stan tips between pissed and amused and _put-your-dick-in-me-now_. “Stan,” Sixer whines. “Stan, look.” But Stan can’t, he wants to but he can’t. Not with is body aching and screaming and Ford right here and so _fucking_ wasted. Stan fights the guilt when he lunges and straight up drags his brother to the floor. Ford’s head smacks hard against the carpet and he makes a noise but quickly smiles up at Stan. Stan feels little guilty crawlies start in his chest. But, fuck, Stan is so hot and holding Ford’s wrists feels like licking a battery.

“Ford.” He moans and pushes his hips into his brother’s. Ford swears below him, but his big nerd brain doesn’t stop.

“I did it!” Ford crows, wriggling and writhing. Stan latches onto Ford’s neck like a leech. Ford gasps and groans but doesn’t stop. “I did it.” He moans and Stan hums agreement into Ford’s neck. Stan nips and sucks and kisses until his gut and dick and everything between his thighs that hates him all decide to electrocute him at once. He tips back from Ford, keening as his muscles spasm. Ford finally seems to pull his nerd brain from nerd land and finally sees Stan in a hot and willing (desperate) state. Ford moans and leans forward to bite into Stan’s neck. Stan damn near screams. Ford is casually humping into Stan’s crouch but his eyes are drifting closed.

Fuck, Ford’s drunk. He's gonna pass out. Stan won't get fucked. _Fuuuck_. Stan tries to pinch Ford, tries to shake him, but Pointdexter is down and out. Stan writhes uselessly over a drunk Ford. Maybe, his doped mind says, maybe if he rides Ford's dick it'll be alright. So what that Ford's asleep? He won't mind. Who gets upset over fucking someone?

But Stan knows better, dammit. Stan pulls himself together enough to drag Ford’s blacked out ass into the bed, falling so that Ford's half sprawled on top of him. The weight is nice and also fucking horrible.

Stan hates this because he's burning and the sheets are too rough and not enough and the one person who could fix it all is about as useful as a rock, the way he's sleeping. So, Stan is laying under Ford’s drunk ass, Stan’s hips periodically thrusting up and the sheets beneath him becoming soaked with Stan’s slick and sweat and sheer frustration.

Ford falls to the side between the fourth and fifth time he gets off. He lost count because he feels strung out and too sharp, to coarse, to _here_. He has never been more aware of the physical world (even in his first painful heat, he had been stuck in his own head, his own body). It's a kind of ecstasy that makes him grind against any new feeling, wimper when a draft blows over him. Ford stirs beside him, between tipsy and hungover. He glares at Stan in his sleep. He’s adorable, he’s miserable, he’s an asshole. Stan locks himself in the bathroom the rest of the night, screaming into towels and taking enough cold showers that Ford is going to flip at their next water bill.

Stan wakes in a nest of damp towels to Ford banging on the door.

“Stan, please, I don’ feel so good.” Ford mumbles and Stan pulls his burning skin away from the towels--Christ, these towels feel amazing--and opens the bathroom door. Ford hurries passed him and barely reaches the toilet before puking his guts out. Stan moans because Sixer’s gonna be too hungover to fuck and Stan doesn't know if he can make it. (Sex brain is impatient and tells him to find someone else. Someone more competent. Stan is ashamed.)

Stan crawls back to bed and when he lays down he feels how wet his boxers are and how rough the sheets are and he makes one if those stupid porno moans. Ford eventually emerges, groggy and distressed. Stan feels a whine escape him and Ford gives him a brief, sober look. Then Ford stumbles to the couch, lays down, and starts to make the most pitiful noises in history. Stan doesn't feel so bad about his whining.

 

It’s dark before Ford wakes. Stan is starving and thirsty and he wants that dick _now_. He's making the worst noises to date, moans and groans and, fuck, a breathy squeal. Ford seems to ignore him, staggering over to their shitty kitchenette. He paws through the fridge and comes back with bread and bologna. He makes two sandwiches; his intense focus betrays how hungover he is. Stan wants to laugh but he also needs to be fucked right now, Sixer, you dumbass.

“Ford.” Well, hell, someone had to break. Ford pauses, then smears some mustard on the bread. “Ford.” Stan says with more force, more feeling, more _fuck-me-like-it’s-your-job_. Ford shudders, grabs his head. Stan almost smirks because, _finally_ , Ford’s gonna fuck him but then, oh fuck. Ford takes out two glasses and fills them with water. Stan groans, long and loud and as pornographic as he can. Ford just turns around with two sandwiches and two glasses of water. He makes two trips and settles on the bed at Stan’s feet. Stan shudders and can feel his pupils blow up.

“Stanley, drink.” Ford pushes the glass of water into his space and Stan takes it. Ford stares harder and Stan takes a tentative sip. Oh, fuck, water is amazing. He drains it. When he drops the glass on the bed, Ford looks pointedly at the sandwiches. Stan eagerly reaches for food even as sex brain makes his mouth whine. Fuck it, sex brain can do whatever it wants once he’s not hungry. He devours one sandwich as Ford eats the other. Mustard gets on his hands and it's fucking amazing when he licks it off. And, maybe, he exaggerates how great it feels and, maybe, he makes eye contact with Ford while sucking his fingers. It doesn't matter because Ford's face is as red as his eyes and his pupils are blown to hell.

“Ford.” Stan groans and leans over the plate and into Ford’s space. Ford jumps up, grabbing the dirty plates and glasses, hurrying to the kitchen sink. Stan shuffles to follow him because if Ford’s gonna run then Stan’ll chase him. Slowly.

“Sit down, Stanley.” Ford barks, all authoritative and _whoo_ boy. Stan sits down and tries not to pant. Ford seems to take his time and it's just making Stan pissed and hard as fuck. Stan flops back on the bed, feet dangling over the edge, with a groan and palms himself through his boxers. Why is he wearing these at all? Stan shucks ‘em and does his best to annoy Ford into coming back and actually taking care of him but, _oh_ , yeah, that feels good. Stan loses himself in the feel of his hand on his dick and ups the ante, finger squelching into his ass. He's getting all fuzzy and really moaning, his blood is hot and fast and he's on fire.

Hands grab both of Stan’s wrists and Stan writhes because the hands are too hot and strong and they won't let him move. He's whining in the most pathetic way and he's way into the heat because he doesn't even care. One of Stan’s hands is pinned to the bed. The other wrenches his hand away from his ass and his finger is being sucked into a hot mouth. Stan’s eyes snap open and he stares at Ford's mouth working around him, brows pinched in arousal and a bit of that Ford-brand bitchiness. Ford pulls off with a last, thick lave. He moves up to straddle Stan’s naked hips, his own clothed dick rubs at Stan’s and Stan tries to buck into it, but Ford’s is too heavy and strong, the fucker. Ford now has both of Stan’s arms pinned and sex brain is so, so okay with this.

“I don't know why you thought doing something this reckless was a good idea.” Ford growls and Stan’s whole body shudders and he whines like he's wounded because every second Ford isn't fucking him, he's dying. Ford leans down and nips Stan’s neck just below the ear and Stan does that stupid squeal like Ford’s popped a hole in him. Ford is breathing heavy and hot into his ear and Stan can barely hear anything over his own panting. “And we will talk about this.” And Ford’s voice is low and heavy with promise and Stan is gone, fucking gone; he doesn't care what Ford does to him but he wants it now.

“Ford.” Stan thrusts into the space between Ford’s legs, pulling against Ford's grasp and that just makes Ford nip him again, harder. Stan’s moan is more like a shout. Ford groans and then badass Ford kinda deflates and nerdy Sixer is moaning miserably into Stan’s chest.

“Why'd this happen when I'm hungover?” Ford whines and Stan laughs.

“Not my fault you got shit faced without me.” Stan thrusts again, not going far with all of Ford's weight on him. Ford pulls back and scowls down at Stan as if, yes, maybe Stan is to blame for Ford's bad choices. Sex brain doesn't like this hiccup in the sex making and ball lightning is rolling down his spine and erupts in his gut. Stan spasms as he screams. Ford's hands grab his face and it feels so fucking good.

“Ford.” Stan whines and pants as Ford looks over his face; Ford is all wrinkled with concern. Stan’s hands fly to Ford’s hair, just needing to hold onto something. Ford grunts when Stan pulls too hard and Stan just whines again.

“It’s okay, Stan. It's okay. I'll take care of you.” He's whispering and soothing, one thumb caressing his cheek, catching a little on the stubble. The other hand starts to slowly and gently stroke down Stan’s chest, rubbing over a nipple, carding through chest hair. Stan is gasping for air and twitching, everything Ford does makes another mini bolt of electricity tingle along Stan’s nerves. He's making dumb little whimpers and Ford shushes him with gentle kisses that are sweet and not enough. Stan tries to open his mouth wider, push deeper, anything to get Ford to hop on the sex train, but Ford just moves back with a quiet “sh” that has Stan writhing.

Ford is kissing along his neck, his shoulders, licking and sucking and definitely not _fucking_. Stan’s sex brain finally gets pissed with the slow pace and Stan grabs Ford's hips.

“Ford!” Stan snaps in time with his hips and if judging by the way Ford's eyes just rolled, Stan’s pretty sure he got a good hit in. Stan is grinning victoriously and snaps his hips again. This time Ford growls, snatching Stan’s wrists and pulling them away. His face is predatory as he climbs off of Stan completely.

“Roll over.” He says as he begins to remove his nightshirt and boxers. Stan complies quickly, turning over and shimmying up the bed and grabbing a pillow or two to stuff under his hips. He can’t help the useless thrusts; the fabric feels fucking amazing. He feels the bed dip behind him and his body is humming with anticipation. He's too cold without Ford touching him and burning up from how hot he is. Six fingered hands land softly at the base of his spine and, dammit, _they go up_. Ford scrapes his nails lightly up Stan’s back, catching and tugging briefly at the hair on his shoulders.

“Fuck.” Stan’s body shivers and as the hands scrape down again; Stan somehow melts and arches into the touch--anything to get more. Ford’s hands still on his hips and Stan keens like a fucker. “Ford, fuck, Sixer, please.” He can’t even lift his head to look at Ford, just squeezes his eyes tight enough to water and breathes. The hands on his back spasm and he hears the hitch in Ford’s breath. Then, thank fuck, they move lower and Ford is still too damn gentle, rubbing Stan’s ass and thighs like he might break (and he can, he will; Ford will break him). Stan whimpers and pushes into every light touch, trying to get more. Ford, the asshole, finally gets the picture and starts to rub one finger against Stan’s hole and the other smears his slick to his balls and that’s gonna itch like a fucker when it dries but right now, _oh_ , it’s just hot and velvety--clever six fingers teasing and cradling and rolling. Stan is just one loud, long moan between the hand on his balls and the finger in his ass. He’s impatient as hell and sex brain is so on board when Stan thrusts onto Ford’s finger, wordlessly demanding more. Ford obliges, adding a second finger and then a third until Stan is a fucking mess of desperate noises and slick and he’s not even fucking himself on Ford’s fingers anymore so much as writhing uselessly. He can feel the gathering of electricity about to wreck his body.

“Ford, fuck, now. Please, please.” Stan can’t catch his breath, terrified of the next vicious pulse and so desperate to have Ford take care of him. Ford gets it and Stan knows that the fingers have to leave for them to get to the main event but sex brain still whines. And Ford, the complete and utter dick and worst brother fucker in history, just fucks between Stan’s asscheeks, teasing. And, fuck, the lightning strikes and Stan screams again.

“Oh, no, God, Stan, I’m sorry, I didn’t--” Ford is stammering and pulling away.

“Fuck, just,” Stan whines and shudders. “Please, just fuck me, Sixer.” He feels Ford’s head fall between his shoulders and the rub of his nod. Stan feels Ford get back in position and this time there is no teasing, just Ford easing himself into Stan and Stan feels the tension that has building in his body for days just leak out of him. He sighs, long and satisfied while Ford moans like he’s been punched. Serves the fucker right.

“God, Stan. You’re so perfect.” Ford groans when his hips are flush to Stan’s ass and he can breathe again. Stan chuckles breathlessly.

“Took ya long ‘nough.” He’s slurring a bit. But, if he’s still talking at all, then Ford’s not doing his damn job. “Now, fuck me.” Stan grinds back and Ford’s hands scramble for purchase, landing back on Stan’s hips. Stan finally looks over his shoulder, cocky that he now has Ford on the ropes and ah, _shit._ Ford looks wrecked. His hair is plastered to his forehead, his entire body is flushed and glistening. But, his face. Ford look _smitten_ , **possessive**. It’s heady and Stan’s whole body clenches and then goes limp. Ford yelps and then decides that he’s finally getting on the sex train and Stan is being fucked within an inch of his life. This is always the best part--when Ford fucking loses it and sex brain lights up like cigarette and Stan just tries not to let Ford literally fuck his brains out. (Living in this shitty studio apartment has its perks, like, Stan can scream as loud as he wants and no parents can storm in and ruin the moment.) And, fuck, Stan is close, so close. His body is tensing up and he’s waiting for it.

And Ford keeps going. And _going_.

“Ford.” Stan whines and Ford grunts, still moving. “Ford _, oooh_ , need ya-- _ahhhh_ knot.” He says gasping and Ford growls.

“Shut up.” He snaps and Stan whines. Ford keeps going and that awful static is building back up and Stan can’t take another one, he can’t.

“Ford, please.” He begs and, fuck, is he crying? No, no, he’s just sweating really fucking hard.

“I’m trying.” Ford snarls and Stan _gets it_.

Ford can’t. Ford can’t knot Stan. Even if Stan is in heat and putting off all the right signs, Ford can’t do it. Maybe Ford really is trying, but it won’t happen. Stan feels panic pool in his gut just as that damn sex brain lightning hits his balls again. He doesn’t scream but the noise he makes is humiliatingly like a sob, desperate and wet and too loud. Ford curses, his hips stutter, and then he collapses on Stan’s back. He’s shaking.

“S’xer?” Stan slurs, concerned and scared and pushed so far passed horny it hurts. Ford just shakes harder.

“‘M s’rry.” Ford mumbles into his back and, oh, God, _no_. He’s crying. “I’m sorry.” Stan paws blindly behind himself.

“No, sh, S’xer, i’s okay. ’S alright.” Stan tries to rub Ford’s sides, pat his back, but Ford just starts crying harder and Stan feels Ford’s sweaty head shake between his shoulder blades.

“N-no. It’s n-not.” Fuck, _fuck,_ sex brain gets a taste of a sad Ford and fucks off (not without telling Stan to fuck off with it). Stan pushes down all the static and heat (and that fucking _hurts_ ) and pushes gently at Ford’s thighs.

“‘S gonna be okay.” He pushes insistently and Ford pulls out with another miserable noise and Stan feels the _whump_ of Ford’s body hitting the mattress. Stan shoves aside his pillows and tries to lay down beside his brother. Ford’s face has that vague, glassy look it gets when he’s back in Vietnam, but he’s crying and looks so miserable. “Ford?” Stan slowly stretches a hand out, so aware of just how bad this can go if he touches Ford in one of his episodes. Still, he gently rests a hand on Ford’s shoulder. Ford twitches, hugs himself, and continues to breathe too fast. Stan grips harder and gives Ford a gentle shake. “Ford, hey. Wake up.” Ford doesn’t really respond between the twitching and Stan is starting to panic.

“Sorry.” Ford whispers, eyes still wide and terrified. Stan hates it, hates his stupid brain for not knowing what to do, hates his stupid body for still being slick and hot. Fuck it; Stan can’t fix it, might as well break it. He grabs Ford and pulls him close, wrapping his arms and legs around his brother. (If his stupid dick gets excited, then it’s dumber than he is.) Ford gets stiff, the kind of stiff that usually means Stan’s gonna get socked in the face, but Ford just goes limp in a miserable way. “Sorry.” He repeats, still sightless and wrecked. Stan gently kisses the tears that are leaking out of Ford’s face. He shushes the little aborted hitches and rubs at Ford’s face and jaw.

“You’re okay, Sixer.” Stan murmurs to Ford’s forehead, lips close enough to be a caress. Ford whimpers and Stan just squeezes him harder, tries to squeeze out all of the shit Ford carries around with him. Stan just rubs and soothes. Ford’s eyes are starting to get more focused when-- ** _fuck_**. Emotional moment or not, Stan’s whole body seizes when sex brain returns like a fucking vengeful god and Stan has to cling to Ford or fall apart. Stan can vaguely hear Ford’s concerned words and that’s wrong because Ford was hurting, not Stan. But when Stan comes back Ford is over him, concerned and, fuck, Stan loves this asshole so much.

“Stan, I’m sorry, I--are you--” Ford is babbling and Stan just feels that gross fondness grow.

“‘S alright.” Stan says and lifts a weak hand to do...something. It lands on Ford’s arm. Yeah, that feels right. Ford stiffens, his face does a blank-out before he shakes it off.

“Sorry, I...I can’t.” Ford mumbles and Stan nods.

“I gotcha. ‘S alright.” Stan pets the arm under his hand.

“It’s not alright! I...I should be able to--you need me!” Ford’s hissing and Stan almost flinches but he’s so tired from everything.

“I gotcha.” Stan says and Ford wrenches his arm out of Stan’s grasp. Stan whines.

“No! This is--I should--!” Ford rolls over with a snarl, his back to Stan. Stan reaches out to touch Ford’s shoulder. “Don’t touch me!” Ford wrenches further away. Stan whines again, needing to help his brother even as the heat haze starts to build up again. Fuck.

“Sixer, please, lemme help.” Stan begs, _really_ begs, not high on sex brain or anything. He watches Ford’s back get tense.

“I don't think you can.” Ford whispers, all quiet and bitter.

“Lemme try?” Stan reaches out again and this time Ford lets him. The touch helps. Helps Stan at least. The sweat on Ford's shoulder has dried, making his skin tacky and a little chilled. Stan rubs lightly, thumb making little circles as his fingers knead. He wiggles his body and pulls at Ford until they're flush against each other. Stan takes a humble second to be mortified that he's spooning his miserable brother while his dick as still very much interested. Then it passes because Stan is maybe, a little bit, shameless. “Wha’ happ’n?” Stan whispers into Ford’s neck. Ford is still awkward and tense. “Please, S’xer, don't like ya hurtin’.” Stan presses a kiss to Ford's neck. Ford grumbles, kind of shrugs.

“Nothing.” Stan snorts and Ford jumps. “Stanley, that is disgusting!” And, yeah, Stan might have a runny nose from the sob fest.

“You jus’ hate all my snot, huh, Sixer?” Stan makes sure to rub his face into Ford's sticky neck and practically grins when he hears an aborted giggle.

“Stop it!” Ford tries to wiggle out of Stan’s grasp and Stan, heat be damned, blows a raspberry right under his ear. Ford fucking squeals and finally bucks Stan off because Stan is fucking wheezing he's laughing so hard. Ford shoots up and turns, hand on his neck and he looks so damn scandalized. Stan is crying and gasping when Ford straddles him again and fucking raspberries him on the stomach. Stan yells and bucks and Ford just grins like a shark and does it again, and again, never in the same place and Stan can't breathe, buts that's okay because Ford is smiling and then Ford raspberries his goddamn tit and Stan makes a noise like a dying squeak toy. Ford collapses over him, laughing hoarsely. Stan reaches up to tickle his brother but finds his hands just trailing up and down Ford's sides instead. Ford is still making little breathy chuckles and Stan just enjoys feeling Ford go up and down in time with his breathing, even if Ford is really fucking heavy. Ford reaches a hand up to scratch at Stan’s scalp. Stan moans and wiggles his hips, trying to get a little relief because, touching moment and all, but sex brain is getting impatient. Ford hums and rolls his hips down and now _, yeah_ , sex brain is shoving all those tender feelings away for more important things. Like sex.

“I wanna try again.” Ford murmurs and Stan kinda skips like a record.

“Ya sure, Sixer?” Stan let's his hands rest on Ford's ass, not grabbing or pulling. Ford takes a deep breath and bumps his forehead against Stan’s.

“Yes.” And Ford starts kissing Stan all soft and sweet and it gets Stan panting and hot way too fast--that’s sex brain, definitely sex brain, yeah. Ford starts to mouth at his jaw and neck and chest and Stan has to push him away. Ford gives him a brief, confused look and then his face does a little blank out. “Hell.” He says and Stan puffs a laugh.

“Thanks.” Stan sighs. Ford bends to return to kissing and generally being a shmoopy bastard. Stan pushes at him again. “Hey, Ford, no of-fense but, ah, can we skip the foreplay?” Stan stammers and Ford goes bright red and clears his throat.

“Ah, yes. Do you, ah.” And Stan is still floored by Ford’s ability to be so demanding and forceful and still become this sweet, stuttering nerd.

“Think’m good ta go, Sixer.” Stan drawls. Ford’s eyes flit down to where Ford is rocking against Stan’s dick and Ford’s face kinda blanks out.

“Turn over.” He says, all authority and as much as sex brain says, yes, finally _, do it_ , Stan has other ideas.

“I’d like ta see ya?” Stan frames it as a question, taking one of Ford’s hands in his and twining their fingers together. Ford’s face gets all soft and gentle.

“Why, Stanley Pines, are you being romantic?” Ford teases, grabbing one of Stan’s previously abandoned pillows. Stan feels the blood not in his dick rush to his face.

“N-no! Just wanna see yer face when ya wreck me.” Stan tries for a leer and Ford pulls an unimpressed face that is definitely pinked and interested. Ford pushes and pulls Stan until Stan’s hips are propped up and Ford is comfortable between Stan’s knees. It’s about now that Stan and sex brain have a fight because, this feels so fucking stupid. He feels exposed and his back isn’t sure if this feels great or like a terrible idea. Sex brain tells Stan to shut up and, ah _, fuck_. There’s that tenseness gathering in his spine. Ford slides two fingers into Stan easily and Stan moans loudly when Ford adds another with just a token of resistance. He could easily take more. “Hey, F-ford?” Stan asks, reaching out to grab Ford’s arm. Ford stills and Stan moans, too fucking frustrated and horny. “If ya can't, may- _ah_ -be y-ya could,” Stan moans again, the thought alone is making sex brain go nuts. “f- _fuuh_ -fist me.” Ford fucking freezes and then spasms, the hand on his hip and the one in his ass do a twitchy thing that has Stan howling.

“Oh, Stan.” Ford sounds so adoring and he bends down to kiss Stan’s cheeks where sweat and tears have made them wet. Stan is a panting bundle of noises when Ford finally pulls out and then, _oh, yes_.

“ _Fffuck_ , Ford. _Yes._ ” Stan’s eyes are fluttering and he's trying to move his hips with Ford's but Ford keeps him still and Stan is just going wild and plays dirty by squeezing as hard as he can once Ford's all the way in. Ford swears and bucks and, yes, yes _, yes_. “Come on, Sixer, fuck me.” Stan wriggles in what he hopes is a sexy manner and _, hell_ , it works. Ford moves but it's _slooow._ It's sweet, really, but Stan’s been on edge all night (and a couple of days) and can't handle slow and sweet. He snarls, grabs Ford's head by the hair and pulls him into a filthy, toothy kiss. Ford doesn’t respond at first, then he's _, yes_ , badass Ford, nipping and sucking and biting and, oh ** _, fucking_**. There are fingers digging into his hips and scraping up his thighs, pulling his legs open wider, lifting one to Ford’s shoulder and--Stan screams. Forget fucking sex brain lightning; Ford fucking _just so_ is gonna wreck him and Stan’s eyes snap to Ford's face, red and wet and panting. Ford's eyes are on Stan’s face, between their bodies, back up to Stan. Ford looks strung out and drugged to hell, glazed and hyper focused on fucking Stan’s (meager) brains out.

“Ford.” Stan groans, long and drawn out. Ford grunts, eyes focusing with intensity on Stan. “Oh, fuck, Ford.” Stan latches a hand on Ford's neck, the other clutches the sheets. “D-do ya— _haaaaah_ \- think I'll like yer hand as m—uuuuh--ch as your knot?” Stan stutters, getting impossibly hotter watching Ford's big brain finally fuck off in the best way it could. Ford makes a sound like he's been punched in the gut, a wheeze and groan. He pauses to catch his breath, the asshole. Well, fuck that. Stan leans just a little forward, using Ford's neck as leverage to bring Ford’s head down to meet him. Quietly, privately: “Let’s find out, Sixer. Knot me with your hand.” Stan purrs, all breathless. Ford blanks out and then comes back, face almost furious.

“No.” He says, before crashing his face into Stan’s. He's nipping and licking, Stan confused but very happy when Ford forces Stan’s other leg on Ford's shoulder (an, that's gonna suck tomorrow). Stan feels near bent in half as Ford really starts to fuck him. The angle is fucking ridiculous and thank God they have their own shitty studio because Stan has broken the sound barrier or some shit. The walls better be shaking at least because the world needs to know how fucking fantastic Pointdexter feels hitting that sweet spot and Stan comes, untouched (fucking Ford, they need to talk about that) and--oh _. Oh_. Ford is swelling and coming and Stan is too exhausted to do much but whine happily at that fucking weird and amazing feeling of being knotted. Ford collapses on Stan, gasping, heaving. Stan pats his back, or, well, his hand flops a bit.

“There y’are, little guy.” Stan slurs, grinning. Ford has recovered enough to groan.

“Please, tell me you are not talking to my dick.” Ford's voice is muffled against Stan’s chest.

“If ya let my legs down. Break it ya buy it, Sixer.” Ford grumbles but wiggles and Stan’s feet rest on the mattress again. “And I was talking to the knot. Missed the guy.” Ford lets out an epic moan and Stan couldn't be happier.

“I'm leaving you.” Ford says and Stan chuckles wickedly, squeezing around Ford's knot. Ford fucking bucks and Stan yells as Ford shouts. Ford is cussing under his breath.

“Yer stuck with me.” Stan laughs, hugging his arms around Ford’s neck. Ford grumbles but sighs, finally angling his head so he can look at Stan.

“I suppose so.” Ford looks so fond and protective that Stan’s heart does a little twirl and he has to cough to cover it.

“Yeah, well, only until your little friend leaves. He's the, uh, glue that holds us together.” Stan says, looking at the ceiling. He feels gentle hands rub at his chest and slide up his neck and into his hair. Ford slowly pulls himself up so that his face hovers over Stan’s.

“Whatever you say, Stanley.” And Ford is kissing him all soft and sweet and, maybe, Stan let's himself be loved.

 

“You were ignoring me!” Stan shouts. Ford looks livid and stiff.

“It was finals week!” Ford shouts back.

“What the fuck is that?”  


**Author's Note:**

> ANOTHER SHORT EXPLORATION OF PTSD.
> 
> This was supposed to be so much heavier with feelings and stuff.
> 
> If anyone's wondering, Ford's PTSD has led to a kind of impotence in that his body never really feels safe enough to knot anyone (after a wonderful and traumatic knotting in the previous installment.) I really might go back and edit this but I have so many other ideas running around.


End file.
